I am pedigree of pious desire and knowledge eternally sacred I have welcomed the pilgrims I have guided their yearning will To the celestial comforts of feathers’ yellows and sanctity’s whites Whites white as my waving robe and now my thin white gown In which I await my appointed time
My tongue is wriggling Circling across my gums In sensuous reveling of my life’s most blessed and greatest times For I have laid eyes upon the glory of life’s highest gifts For I have laid hands upon the most succulent succubus fertile hips And I have supped of *****’s glisten I swam in Bacchus’s wines I have recited doctrines of worship I worshipped saliva’s shine And I have observed communion I drank it with ***** dust I have read the hatha yoga **** as the first man forged And I have anointed blossoming ******* beneath the holy sigil
Sputtering laughter Only trottel bows in truth and believes I dispense A cleansing and redeeming eternal salvation Have you no eyes to see my body’s common human shape? Do you think I’m fat from God’s great love? I cackle in the presence of such unwieldy weakness
Although my bones are sagging More sagging is my wrinkled brain! My memories are mating and birthing strange chimerical forms They’re flooding and blending Into vivid dreamlike collage I see the faces of children I’ve taught Atop necks of ****** I’ve known
The cheap locations of ****** have grafted with the echoing halls of cathedrals Bizarre lights of nightclub glow are dancing upon spiritual texts I hear an angelic litany Sung through a stripper’s lips I feel sheep’s wool In the tousled hair of my boyish youth I taste sweat in the bread of religion’s stoic privation
My air is growing more ragged With every pitiful inhale I take I feel light although I still see my heavy gluttonous flesh My spirit is peeling away Beyond my body’s earth Arising high above from mortality’s curse
I am ascending into the holy realm A realm with gates inviting Like opened lotioned legs
I can see my own corpse Surrounded by genuine reverence They don’t even notice the shot glass Still clutched in my pasty fist